Powers of Levitation, the Life and Times of the Napoleon of Crime
by Arellaca
Summary: The untold, truth story of the most unappreciated and scorned Jellcile cat: Macavity. Follow his life from birth to that fateful night when he decided to try the unthinkable: kidnapping old Deuteronomy. I'll be posting chapters every Sunday. Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
1. Chapter 1

**Powers of Levitation**

**The Life and Times of the Napoleon of the Crime**

**Chapter 1**

Three kittens, the three alike in dignity, in fair London, where we lay our scene, from new grudge broke to the same old quarrelling, where the brother's blood made the brothers' hands unclean.

However concealed, it's been said that the three kittens were children of a now centennial tom, halfway back then, whom supposedly crashed uninvited in Queen Victoria's coronation. The kittens' mother… how should I put it? Even today, she remains a mystery. My sources, however arguable, are positive that she should have been a certain cute queen property of Alexandra of Windsor, née Schleswig-Holstein. Back then, Alexandra was known as the Princess of Wales, still one year away from becoming Queen of England and the second Empress of India. I must apologise. I'm not allowed to disclose the kittens' mother name—one doesn't disclose an HRH's pets name just because. Moreover, she never belonged to the Jellicle cats, so you're not interested in whom she was.

The rumours about her being pregnant and the father's being a commoner cat spread country-wide like wildfire, threating to turn into a sovereign scandal, until gossip crashed against Kensington Palace's unyielding walls and staff. They denied everything, and by everything I mean EVERYTHING. All during her pregnancy, the cute little queen was withdrawn from all public appearances. The palace's spokesmen answered with laconic "no comments" to all question about her whereabouts, whilst reassuring the media—mainly newspapers and tabloids back then—that "both Her Royal Highness and her lady cat" enjoyed good health and were in their best humour. Gossiped leaked that Princess Alexandra and her lady cat had been secluded in Balmoral or Windsor Castle, or that they had travelled to Canada under covered on board of the Olimipc, sister ship to the not-yet-built, would-be infamous Titanic.

The father, a random no one—according to the Duke of Kent's cat account— a Deuteronomy as it was afterwards leaked, lived sharing his roof with Grizabella, the glamour cat—whether within the sanctity of marriage, I cannot tell. Yes, you've read right, I'm talking about the very Grizabella who used to perform, God only knows in how many different, unsettling manners, before perverted, Boer-war veterans' cats, in seamy cabarets near Tottenham Court—cats who quenched their thirst consuming both cheap alcohol and cheap queens. Kindly acknowledge that what I'm relating here happened years before Grizabella's scandal at "The Rising Sun".

The kittens' childbirth was surrounded by fitted secrecy. Deuteronomy spent the whole night outside Kensington Palace under the rain. He only knew that the kittens had answer to the cue that beckoned them to stage because he heard them meowing, crying for milk. Each one sang a different song; each one would be applauded for different reasons. If tears welled up Deuteronomy's eyes, nobody could tell, for they blended with the rain. He had been banned from entering the palace, and the tricks he had used to leak himself in Westminster Abbey years ago were useless this time because of the tight security.

Only Grizabella stood by his side that evening, her make-up ruined and the mascara trickling down her face, both the rain and the lack of an umbrella accountable of turning her into a grotesque Halloween, sad character.

"I can't stand it anymore," she said with a bitter meow. "The kittens are fine. Those were healthy meows. There's nothing left you can do for them. Now let's go. Next time, think it twice before dating one of these posh queens. I'm already hating you enough, so don't keep me here any longer."

Deuteronomy did not answer. He only sighed, wiped his cheeks and nodded. She was right. A premonition bordering scary certainty had already shown him that, in the years to come, he'd meet his children again and the family should be united, albeit fleetingly. Also, that one of the sons that had been born tonight in such a regal cradle was fated to succeed Deuteronomy and be twice greater than him. Other one may be adored by queens, young and old, gorgeous and ugly, shy and daring, etcetera. However, what really worried the would-be Jellicle cats patriarch was this other vision of the ginger kitten fighting his own kin after kidnapping his very father.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Where the readers would have been crushed, had they been bugs, meet a tuxedo cat messing with The Force, and a postman twice scared by cats**

Deuteronomy and Grizabella fled from under the Palace's window as soon as their ears registered footsteps approaching. None of them were interested in finding out who the owner us such footsteps was. Whether they belonged to one of the many Scotland Yard agents precisely posted to prevent Deuteronomy's trespassing, or to some paparazzo willing to steal first hand shots of the kittens, absconding represented the wisest path forward. Both cats bolted away lithely and deftly, perhaps too lithely and too deftly for a tom who had started to gain extra pounds—they would result in a shambling gait in his old age—and for a queen wearing high heels.

The looming figure was neither a government's nor a tabloid's agent. The middle age, unshaved man striding the street resulted an early bird postman. He was walking the inconveniently foggy and rainy London streets on his way to pick his mail bag and start his daily deliveries. The postman duly covered himself with an umbrella, albeit an old one partially ragged, and donned a worn-out kaki raincoat—it'd been his father's—that made a him shade less conspicuous than his heavy stepping, for he kept stomping his feet on the wet sidewalk as if he wanted to crack it. Anybody two blocks way would hear such a stomping and splashing.

The postman yelped when the two cats whooshed between his legs uttering high pitch meows, as if both were cursing their way out of the scene. A second yelp, or I should say a loud gasp, escaped his lips when he recognised at least one of the fleeing cats. His right hand—he was holding the umbrella with his left one—flew to his heart as it missed more than one beat. Eyes wide opened, he was only able to gasp: Grizabella!"

He would only see her again many years in the future, in a time when her presence would cause him not astonishment but pity, and his hand wouldn't hold his heart but scratch his head as he'd mumbled, "… she ought to be dead …"

After his initial surprise, the postman's free hand dashed from his heart to the eyebrows. He extended the hand over his eyes like a cap's visor and, leaning his body forward more than advisable, almost trip in his haste. The tripping killed his futile attempt to drill with his gaze the triple challenge represented by the darkness, the fog, and the rain. All in vain. The sexy queen and her chaperon had disappeared as if both had puffed in the air.

As a "Rats, I've lost her!" escaped the postman's lips, another meow broke into his hearing. His ear almost rose and turned as cat's ears do towards the source of the meow above him. Yes, I said above him. This new meow hadn't come from between his legs, as the former cursing meows had, but high from a tree to his left. For a fleeting moment, hope flooded him and the postman's face beamed and his eyes sparkled. He raised his head and scanned the treetop's thickness with an eagerness he'd only experiment right after his death, when he'd avidly scan his surroundings in search for "the light" towards which he would walk.

What the postman discovered on the tree plummeted his childish enthusiasm. He had expected to find Grizabella crouching on a branch, beckoning him with a sexy claw she would also suck as she narrowed her eyes, inviting the widower postman to the sexiest adventure of his life. Instead, he found a small, male tuxedo-kitten clutching a branch like his life depended on it. And it very well might, for the drop from the treetop to the sidewalk would have been too much for the small animal. Despite his precarious position on the branch, the kitten's right paw was raised and moved in circles, which made no sense; the kitten should have preferred to clutch the branch with all four paws than only with three.

What the postman's eyes actually caught was the paw's momentum after accomplishing what seemed to have been a magic gesture. Picture a magician dressed-up in evening clothes performing before a mesmerised audience. A magician snapping his fingers over a hat before pulling a rabbit out of it, or hovering his hand over a deck of cards before guessing which one is missing. This cat had just achieved a similar movement with his tiny paw.

"That's impossible!" the postman exclaimed. "Cats can't perform magic tricks!"

The tuxedo kitten's head turned fast as a twister towards the postman, fixing his bright yellow eyes on the now half drenched man—the ragged umbrella was barely fulfilling its purpose—and frowned. Yes, the kitten frowned and even grimaced despite the postman's deeming it impossible for a cat.

The kitten's gaze fell on the postman like a ton of bricks. Instinctively, the man backed off some steps until he crashed against the palace's wall. Then he realised he has just been afraid of a little kitten. God helped him! What would come next? Cry like a woman every time he found a mouse on this way to the post office? The postman held the kitten's gaze and blurted, "Come on, you weren't performing magic. You didn't disappeared Grizabella and that other cat that was with her. Cats can't do magic. I'll be damned!"

The tuxedo kitten smirked as if meaning "so you will be," and raised his paw again. The postman immediately felt the grip of an invisible, iron-gloved hand on his neck choking him, and he stood on his toes, endeavouring to alleviate the pressure that suddenly prevented his breathing. The higher the postman stood on his toes, the more the invisible hand climbed up his neck and tightened around it, squeezing it, shutting his airways, as the tuxedo kitten slowly inched his paw upwards in the air. Desperate and awestruck, the postman kept coughing asphyxiated gurgles and his eyes started popping out of their sockets. His face turned purplish.

The tuxedo kitten then seemed to think twice about whatever he was doing with his tiny paw in the air and rested it back on the branch after licking it several times. As an extra precaution, he sank his claws in the tree's soft bark thus gaining additional hold. Immediately, the iron grip on the postman's neck disappeared as if it had never been there. He desperately breathed in an enormous gulp of air and exhaled it coughing, only to gluttonously inspire another gargantuan puff of air. Next, he hyperventilated.

The kitten, oblivious to the postman's desperate recovery of his breath, and his own little, clandestine usage of the force, arched his back like a tetanic patient and bristled his fur, freezing in the position as he stretched his limbs. Next, he impelled himself towards a higher branch, and then towards another one even higher. From branch to branch, performing _fouettés en tournant_, he danced his way up the tree until the postman lost sight of him.

The suffocated postman still gasped for air. With one hand, he grabbed his chest as if preventing his heart from cutting through it. The postman whispered to himself in disbelief, "Cats don't try to choke people using their magic powers, and they don't dance ballet either. The world has gone mad!"

He made the sign of the cross, twice, and then bolted as fast as he could down street, still stomping his feet as if willing to kill all the bugs on the sidewalk. In his haste, he almost tripped here and there, and there too, slipping on the wet pavement.

Inside the palace, the three new-born kittens were lying by their mother, comfortably sucking hot milk, oblivious to the hazardous future they would start facing before the sun would rise the next morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**In which the readers learn how to fertilise their gardens for free, the origin of a legendary ghoul is explained, and Scotch whiskey is used instead of water in a very arguable religious ceremony**

One minute after the postman and the tuxedo kitten had parted, two storeys over the street within Kensington Palace's cosiness, the three new-born kittens that Deuteronomy had fathered were sucking their mother's tits as if they were contending which kitten was able to suck faster and more. The four of them, if we count the placid mother sleeping the exhaustion caused by childbirth and oblivious to the kittens' avid sucking, laid on Princess Alexandra's bed by the Princess's side, a privilege that even the future king Edward enjoyed little. Five beings left alone in a bedroom as large as many London proletarian houses.

Sadly, that evening stood as the one and only one in which the kitten's enjoyed their mother's sweet milk and loving company. Because scandal threatened around the corner, it was paramount to make sure that the kittens would vanish that very night before the tabloids would publish that "the bastards", "the court's shame," had been born. Not that they would be killed. Such an idea hadn't crossed anybody's mind and would have made the Common's and the Lord's hair stand on its end all across Westminster Palace—even their wigs' hair. But what had actually been considered, and decided, was that the kittens' would be given away to servants who would in turn give them away to some other people, concealing their origin so deep within London alleys that nobody would ever guess it. From royal highnesses, however bastards, the three kittens would drift into simple dear little cats.

Princess Alexandra planted a good-bye kiss on each kitten's forehead. She delayed herself a bit more when she kissed the ginger one, appreciating his domed head. Such a head already housed the oversized brain due to which this tom would be so well known in the years to come. Princess Alexandra caressed him and whispered to his ear with that soft and sexy voice that princesses share with porn stars: "I know you can understand what I say. Answer nothing, just listen. Your star points to future, grand, defying heights, but your present is doubtful. So, be as secretive and subtle as you can. You were not here, understood?"

The kittens' mother didn't even raise her head. She among all understood that only this sacrifice would wash the scandal. Her silent tears, for tears welled up her eyes, were not because her children were being taken way, but because she knew Deuteronomy would never forgive her once he'd learn that the kittens had been given away like souvenirs: "Sir! Ma'am! Have a token from Kensington Palace. Royal kittens for free. Carry-home royal highnesses, don't forget to take yours."

Strange as it may sound, Deuteronomy's kittens belonged to three different pedigrees: a Maine Coon, a Silver Tabby and the ginger cat, in reverse order of age. From hand to hand, the Maine Coon kitten would end up in Dorian Grey's, the never-aging prominent playboy. The silver tabby kitten would be adopted by a Winston Churchill that had barely returned from South Africa and planned to run as conservative candidate representing Oldham constituency. The ginger kitten was given to a middle-age palace groom prone to get drunk and sleep it of under the stable's hay, a Duncan Macavity. He was instructed to give away the kitten to anybody he may find on this way back home, but he couldn't. That day he left the palace very late in the evening and bumped into nobody. So he kept the ginger kitten at home and promised to himself he'd offer the kitten to his neighbours; he could even sell the kitten and profit a schilling.

Hapless Duncan Macavity was fired from the palace's household several weeks later because he was caught in the garden, drowned in cheap Scotch, with his pants down to his ankles, in sunlight, and urinating on Princess Alexandra's favourite daffodils.

By the way, the daffodils grew larger and prettier after such a shameful sprinkling. According to the gardener's claim, such a sudden and exuberant growth should not be attributed to Duncan Macavity's spraying them with his yellow internal fluids, but to the gardener's own ability. That Duncan Macavity had decided to empty his bladder in public the very same day in which the gardener had started feeding the flowers with a powerful concoction of his own, should be viewed as a mere coincidence.

Another remarkable coincidence was that Kensington Palace's ghoul started to be seen precisely around those days. According to my most reliable sources, from the very beginning the ghoul preferred to wander the gardens than the building, specifically near the flowerbeds. Up to today, the ghoul still haunts the place at nights and has scared the hell out of Queen Elizabeth II herself. It's being gossiped that Lady Diana Spencer pissed her pants one night when she had gone outside to the gardens to speak on her mobile with Dodi Al-Fayed and the ghoul materialised in front of her. And I even know that King Jorge VI's stuttering started after the said ghoul chased him through the gardens when he was a kid.

Gossip in the kitchens, however, was that no ghoul existed at all, but that the ghoul was a perverted man who somehow managed to trespass the palace's premises every night only to pee on the flowers. Maybe it was Duncan Macavity himself repeating his deed in a sort of cranky revenge.

"Nah! It's not Macavity," Xenobia, the overweighted head cook insisted every time somebody might touch the topic, "it's a relation of the gardener. The other day the moon was bright in the sky and I caught a glimpse of that perverted man's face. It looked so much like the gardener's. Could well be his very brother!"

The cook was right. Once he'd lost his very well paid job, Duncan Macavity had more complex and more compelling issues to worry about than to gloat over an action he could perform in more accessible toilets. He also forgot to get rid of the little ginger tom they'd gave him. As days passed without his giving away the tom as instructed, Duncan Macavity started enjoying the kitten's company. In the end, he decided to keep the tom as a way to boast his lack of compliance now that he was no longer a palace's employee.

The cat, Duncan Macavity ruminated, could be useful in the future. He passed his tongue over his lips relishing in his mind the day in which he would appear before the palace's doors carrying the grown-up tom, scandalising friends and foes. People would draw away from him as he'd enter the palace halls holding the tom high with one hand. The ladies would cover their faces ashamed, and some would even faint, and the men would be unable to stop him, for he, Duncan Macavity, would be holding the ultimate proof that depravity had infiltrated royalty. The proof that the righteous Sax-Cobourgs—the future Windsors—were nothing but a handful of despicable, little, merry rakes, starting with their cats giving childbirth to bastards. God only knew if the Prince of Wales was a bastard himself.

They would offer him money, and he would not accept their first offering. Ten thousand pounds! He'd ask ten thousand pounds to keep his mouth shut. No bargaining. If that vile crowd of royal highnesses would want to keep their reputations clean, they'd have to pay him. They'd have to pay Duncan Macavity ten thousand pounds.

"And if you don't like it, sue me!" Duncan Macavity yelled to his own reflection on a cracked mirror in the shitty rented room on a second floor that he called _his manor_.

"You," he yelled again, now pointing a crooked finger at a scared ginger kitten cringing on a table. "You're my son now. Your name is now Macavity, like mine." Laughing like a schizophrenic, he cupped the kitten in his hand and poured whisky from an open bottle on him. The kitten experimented seizures and meowed like a madman—or, then again, like a madcat—as he tried to break free and escape from the unexpected, ethylic rain. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**In which the readers meet a Dr Jekyll that has nothing to hide, a royal kitten is used to compensate a quantity of powder that resulted short, and everybody wonders whether cats can really master hypnosis**

That evening, Duncan Macavity fell asleep cradling the Scotch bottle within his arms. Macavity the tom cuddled beside him. His ritual included licking his right and left paws, and finally yawning, opening his mouth wide, parading all his little teeth—they would have made a dentist's delight. Last, he licked his mater's unshaved cheek several times and fell asleep for what seemed an eternity, until loud knocks awaken him. He raised his head and ears, looking around. Whoever stood at the door knocked again, twice as hard as before, shouting, "Macavity! Duncan Macavity! I know you're there. Open up."

Macavity the tom turned to his master. His master opened half of an eye. "Hmmm?"

The man outside kept knocking. "Macavity, I'm in a hurry. I'll count to three or I'll knock down the door."

Duncan Macavity opened half of his other eye. "Hmmm?"

"One!"

Duncan Macavity stood motionless. Macavity the tom liked his cheek. The man outside didn't seem to be kidding; his master ought to open the door fast.

"Two!"

Macavity the tom licked his master cheek faster. He even poked him with his little paw. His master had to wake up. Instead, Duncan Macavity whispered without even moving, "Oh, leave me alone!"

"Master, wake up," Macavity the tom said, but most likely his little meow couldn't be heard.

"Three!"

The door slammed open and a tall, lanky man rammed into the one room, messy dwelling. He was dressed in a dark suit and held a chimney pot hat and an ebony cane, and his boots where so polished one could mirror oneself on them. His momentum caused him to crash into the table in front of the door, knocking it over. The few china pieces that Duncan Macavity owned—stolen property from Kensington Palace—broke into pieces upon making contact with the floor. Scared to death, Macavity the tom fled from his mater's side and sheltered himself in the hovel's farthest and darkest corner under a dilapidated chest of drawers—two of the drawers were impossible to open and god only knew their content.

The tall, lanky man regained his composure, scanned the room in a glance, and poked Duncan Macavity with his cane. "Get up Macavity. It's almost noon. Do you have the substance?"

Duncan Macavity seemed to recognise the voice. He grunted and threw the blankets to the floor, motioning to get off the bed but fell to the floor instead.

"You're drunk like a fish!" the tall, lanky man said, taking a handkerchief to his nose and grimacing. "Stand up and tell me where the substance is. I need to add that chemical compound to the rest of my mixture before two hours or else the mixture would spoil. I spent three year gathering the ingredients. Where is it?"

Duncan Macavity placed both hands on his bed and, with great difficulty, hauled himself up. He managed to sit on the bed, his red, glazed eyes ogling the tall, lanky man. He rubbed his eyes and next his face. Then he belched.

"I've got your stuff, Dr Jekyll," he said at last, slurring the words. "It's on the table."

_On the table?_ Macavity the tom glanced at the overturned table and scanned the wreckage. A paper bag lied on the floor and its content, some white powder, was half spilled.

"Oh the table?" Dr Jekyll glanced at the overturned table too and frowned. He scowled, "You fool! It's got contaminated."

Duncan Macavity stared at the wreckage with glassy eyes that seemed as dead as a blind man's eyes. Then he muttered, "You did that."

"You made me do it," Dr. Jekyll protested. "You were not opening the door. I waited you for hours since very early this morning."

Duncan Macavity rubbed his eyes again and stared stupidly into the void. "I forgot."

Dr Jekyll was already kneeling on the floor, savaging as much white power as possible. Macavity the tom poked out his head from under the chest of drawers, tilting it right and left as he fixed his gaze on the powder. It looked appealing, white and slightly bright, and seemed soft, like flour. What could it be? Macavity the tom approached with short, cautious steps, smelling the verge of the spilling with his little, black nose. The smell was pungent. He backed off making a disgusted face.

"This is barely a pound," Dr Jekyll said, disappointment dressing his voice. "I gave you enough money for three. Where's the rest?"

The smell had been disappointing for such a sexy powder, but its tempting texture still needed to be tested. Macavity the tom approached it again. He raised his little face and meowed, "What it is?"

Dr Jekyll glanced at him and said, "None of your business."

Macavity the tom was about to touch the spilled powder with his little paw when the doctor dismissed him with a hand gesture, "Shoo!"

Macavity the tom backed two steps but kept his gaze fixed on the alluring powder, narrowing his eyes. The doctor would get distracted sooner or later, and then it'd be the right time to approach and find out everything about the strange powder. Macavity the tom smiled.

"There's no rest," Duncan Macavity answered still looking into the void. "Damned most difficult and illegal thing to find on both sides of the Thames. I almost got killed. Be grateful I was able to get hold of that much."

Dr Jekyll got to his feet holding the paper bag. His impeccable, Saville Row black trousers looked now grey and soiled. He stooped and motioned to dust the, but stared at Macavity the tom instead. The only amount of powder left impregnated one of his paws, making it conspicuously white. Dr Jekyll frowned.

"How did you…? When…? I never saw you touching the power. Told you it was none of your business."

"I was not there!" Macavity the tom protested. "Besides, this is not your powder, this is icing sugar from the cupboard."

He then licked his paw looking forward to convincing Dr Jekyll that his paw not powdered with his powder. Only a fool would risk consuming an unknown chemical substance. Dr Jekyll squinted, and finally said nothing.

When Dr Jekyll turned back to Duncan Macavity, Macavity the tom backed off two steps and started spitting in all directions. The white powder tasted terrible, as bitter as its aroma, and Macavity the tom made a mental note not to be this foolish again. Not everything that glitters is gold.

Meanwhile, Dr Jekyll had approached the kitten's master. He reached out and tugged at Duncan Macavity's drooling jaw with a hand, forcing the man to look up at him. Dr Jekyll commanded, "Give me back the rest of the money."

Duncan Macavity broke into bitter laughter. "Do I seem to have any money left?"

He was finally able to get to his feet and wobbled his way through the room. He stooped and scooped Macavity the tom with one hand. The kitten tried desperately to get free, but Duncan Macavity closed his hand almost squeezing him. Pain drew a high-pitched meow out of him.

"See this kitten, Dr Jekyll? He's worth ten thousand pounds. He's Princess Alexandra's cat, born three weeks ago. Take him to Kensington Palace and threaten them to tell everybody the truth if they don't pay you ten thousand pounds."

Dr Jekyll backed off one step as if the kitten were a curse placed right in front of him, his eyes wide open. "I'm not going to do that! I wouldn't blackmail the royal family in ten thousand years. Besides, I won't get mixed in dirty business. I don't want your cat. I want my money. Golden sovereigns."

"Well, that's the only way to get the rest of your money back," Duncan Macavity said, smirking.

He belched again. The putrid smell caused Macavity the tom to shiver as the invisible fumes penetrated his lungs, burning his insides—his master ought to put him down on the floor if he planned to belch again. Instead, Duncan Macavity wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held the cat right in front of Dr Jekyll's eyes, two inches away from the doctor's nose. "Take the kitten with you or forget about your money, mister."

Dr Jekyll stood silent for moment alternatively glancing the cat and Duncan Macavity. As he shook his head, his countenance transformed into a most annoyed one, like a werewolf morphing under moonlight. Suddenly, Macavity the tom wanted to stay no more beside his mater. The man was filthy, had no respect, would well poison him the next time he'd belch, had just revealed himself unscrupulous enough as to give Macavity the tom away in pay of a debt and, in the end, was only keeping him because the man though some profit could be obtained in the future. Macavity the tom's heart started pounding fast. Heavily distressed, his forehead furrowed, he locked his eyes on Dr Jekyll's a few inches away and begged, "Take me with you."

Something unexpected happened. Dr Jekyll froze, apparently falling into some sort of trance, and stared at Macavity the tom as if awaiting confirmation. For one second, Macavity the tom stood lost. What was going on? Had the powder poison the good doctor? Impossible, he never touched it. The doctor might have not heard him properly and was most likely expecting Macavity the tom to repeat his plea. So, Macavity the tom almost shouted when he forcefully uttered, "Take me with you!"

Dr Jekyll seemed to come out of this trance. All had happened in less than two seconds. To Macavity the tom's surprise, and apparently to Duncan Macavity's as well, Dr Jekyll said cheerfully. "All right! I live alone; the kitten could well be my company. Besides, if he's truly an HRH as you say, he could be useful in the future."

With silky tones and a stupid smile drawn on his face, Duncan Macavity said, "Of course. Anybody would feel alone in your large St. James Street mansion. This little kitten will be your best friend, and will get along with your other cat. You'd made the best decision. Are we even with the debt?"

"Yes, were even. My other cat? You mean Bustopher Jones?" Dr Jekyll guffawed. The man had rather long nose and thin lips. Macavity the tom was able to make this appreciation from his advantageous stand point, still being held in front of the doctor's face. "There are times when I think that cat is not mine, but that I am his."

That had been a curious statement. Macavity the tom was not aware that cats could be people's masters. Maybe it was a rich people thing. He meowed, "Why so? Tell me."

Dr Jekyll locked his eye with Macavity the tom's eyes again. For a second time, he got into a fleeting trance before doing what he had just been told. "Because Busthopher Jones thinks only about himself, and I'm good only for paying his debts. He's a regular at every London restaurant. Mark my words, that cat will soon suffer obesity. He's still young and may not worry much about over weight, but there will a time when he'll regret it. What I need is a cat that may actually be my company, not one that is only good for milking my pockets each time the restaurants' bills arrive by mail. You name it, the Fox's, the Siamese, or even this new one… how's it called?" Dr Jekyll paused to think. "Oh, yes! The Glutton. They say the Prince of Wales himself was there the other day, and that Bustopher Jones sat at his table." Dr Jekyll checked his pocket watch. "I'm running out of time." He addressed Duncan Macavity, "Put the kitten inside a sack."

_Inside a sack?_ Macavity the tom hadn't counted on it. Before he was able to perform the hypnotising trick again and order he should be carried in a comfy basket, Duncan Macavity started searching for a bag in a pile of rubbish beside an overflowing garbage bin, still holding him in one hand. Macavity the tom complained meowing as loud as he could, with no positive result. In a fruitless endeavour to get free, Macavity the tom started scratching his master's hand but Duncan Macavity smirked and threw him inside a cloth bag, closing the sack with a ripping sound. Everything turned dark. Macavity the tom could see nothing. He could only smell dust, and soil. He sneezed. Then he charged against the inside of the sack, attempting to tear it with his little claws. Too thick for him. He charged once more and was thrown back by a blow.

"Stop wriggling." Dr Jekyll voice commanded. "What's his name?"

"Macavity," Duncan Macavity's smarmy voice answered.

"You christened the kitten after yourself, bastard?"

"You can still leave little Macavity with me if you wish…" The sack was tugged at; Duncan Macavity should have been trying to retrieve it.

"No, it's mine now. Good afternoon." Dr Jekyll's voice sounded adamant and the sack was pulled again. Then the world started shaking violently and Macavity was thrown in every direction once and once again. Dr Jekyll must have been bolting downstairs to the street.

"Hey, let me out, doc!" Macavity cried with a loud meow. Without the direct eye contact, it seemed that no control was possible.

The die had been cast.


End file.
